


Back to Baker Street: The Beginning

by highlyillogical



Series: Back to Baker Street [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9644519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highlyillogical/pseuds/highlyillogical
Summary: Or, 'A Study in Pink'After being invalided home from Afghanistan, John Watson was only looking for some peace. Instead, he managed to get himself caught up in a whirlwind of serial killings, car chases, and awkward dinners, and it was all thanks to a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes.***After the tragedy of Series 4, let's take some time to rewind back to the beginning, back to when John and Sherlock first met. 'Back to Baker Street' tells the story of BBC Sherlock, the way it always should have been





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Series 4 was definitely...something. Whatever it was, it wasn't what we expected, and definitely not what John and Sherlock deserved. So, fueled by spite, I sat down and started to re-imagine the story right from the beginning and came out with over 10,000 words richer. 
> 
> This doesn't act entirely as a fix-it, as it's going to be almost completely canon compliant until I start re-writing Series 4, but, regardless, I hope that I'll do the great romance justice. 
> 
> Also, Moftiss can suck my ass.

The war was like an echo. Reverberating off of stone walls into empty rooms, the war was loudest at night when his mind was settled, allowing it to be heard after being drowned into near nonexistence by the oppressive chaos of London during the day. But, try as London might to stamp out the echo of the war—and with it, memories of pain, bloodshed, and death—it always somehow resurfaced, wet and bedraggled but alive all the same. It was like a parasite that couldn’t be killed, feeding after nightfall off of the fallibilities of the human mind in its most vulnerable state. It whispered and hissed, reminding any creature who would listen that it was there, that it would always be there, like a succubus.

John couldn’t help but listen.

The echo of the war rang out gunshots in his ears and drew blood behind his eyes. It robbed him of sleep; nights full of pleasant dreams, even no dreams at all, were a distant memory. He relived the sweltering heat, the sun burning his flesh. He remembered the sight of men falling on the battlefield, the tears of the men he saved and the eyes of those he couldn’t. He remembered all of it: the pain, the gunfire, the very moment that the bullet ripped itself through his flesh—

John wrenched his eyes open and sat up in bed, his heart pounding, chest tight, and his breath shaking with every tremor of his left hand. A burst of lightning and clap of thunder outside his window illuminated the small room, casting horrible, twisted shadows, and John brought his shaking hand to his chest in a poor attempt to steady himself. His forehead was damp with sweat, as were the blankets, which practically strangled him.

Ripping the cold sheets from his body, John fell back against his pillow, feeling the rickety bedframe creak and the mattress groan under the force of it. Hand still over his heart, he gasped a choking breath and felt his eyes sting with tears that never fell. Instead, he dry-sobbed into the empty room and waited for the sun to rise, with only the ticking of his alarm to keep him company.

When the storm subsided and sunlight started seeping its way into the room, John sat up on the edge of his bed and tried to focus on the feeling of the carpet beneath his feet. In the faint sunlight he tried to focus his wavering gaze on something distinct in the sea of muted brown that surrounded him, but found that it was becoming harder for him to even distinguish one wall from the other. Eventually, his eyes drifted to his desk—and, in turn, to the war itself. Or, rather, what John had left of it. Against the desk leaned his cane, cold and demanding and proof of the throbbing echo in his mind.

Eventually, he limped over to the desk and took his cane in hand, hating the weight of it. He mechanically began his morning routine, most of it out of habit and muscle memory rather than as the result of any conscious decision. He tossed on his dressing gown before making himself a cup of coffee—milk, no sugar—in the only mug he owned, bearing the arms of the Royal Army Medical Corps. He ignored the morning paper and took the last apple from his fruit bowl. He already knew that the fridge was empty, too. He should probably go shopping after therapy.

John didn’t have a dining table, so he set his sorry excuse for a breakfast down on the desk, sat down, and laid  his cane over his lap, ignoring the way that it pressed, cold and lifeless, into his thighs. He opened the top drawer of the desk to retrieve his laptop, one of the few items of luxury he had to his name; underneath it lied a small notepad, an unused pen, and a handgun. John placed the laptop on the desk in front of him and closed the drawer. His gaze lingered on the gun far too long as he wondered how long it had been since he held it in his hands, how the cold metal would feel against his skin.

He wondered if being shot was quite how he remembered it.

Before he could dwell on the thought for too long, John took a swig of his coffee and opened his laptop. It opened to the same page it always did, ‘The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.’ And so John proceeded with his morning routine and sat there, hands clasped in front of his face, staring blankly at the screen without any hint of a clue as to what to write.

He’d had the blog for over a month now and had written barely a handful of times, nothing more than four sentences at a time. Ella said that he should be writing in his blog more often, to which he had agreed absentmindedly without any real intention to carry through with her request. She remained insistent, so on Monday John had posted about getting drinks with the rugby lads. He posted yesterday too, about those strange suicides that he’d heard about on the radio, so could probably get away with not writing for another couple of days. Any more than that and Ella would be on his case again.

John glanced at the clock. He had just under an hour until his appointment. Sighing, he drained the rest of his coffee, closed his laptop, and decided against eating the apple before reaching once more for his cane and continuing with his morning routine.

Shower. Clothes. Shave. Teeth. Shoes.

Wash, rinse, repeat, every day, without fail.

Thirty-seven minutes later he was on the tube. Twenty minutes after that he was back in Ella’s chair. He hated that chair.

He and Ella exchanged the usual pleasantries and John tried to ignore the pitying look in her eyes. She was a nice woman, really, she was. But she just didn’t _understand._ John tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair.

“How’s your blog going?”

Ella was leaning forward in her own chair. John could only assume it was an attempt to be inviting.

“Yeah, good,” he replied, looking anywhere but at her. He cleared his throat awkwardly. He really was an _awful_ liar. “Very good.”

“You haven’t written a word, have you?”

Choosing to ignore her, John instead pointed to the notes on her lap. “You just wrote ‘still has trust issues.’”

She glanced down at her notes, fiddling with her pen. John could tell that she disapproved. “And you read my writing upside down,” she said, raising her brows. “D’you see what I mean?”

John saw exactly what she meant but, again, chose to ignore her. He gave a twitch of his lips and continued to tap against the arm of the chair.

Ella sighed and straightened her back. “John,” she began, “you’re a soldier, and it’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will _honestly_ help you.”

“Nothing happens to me,” he said. And it was probably the first honest thing that he had told her since they met.

The session didn’t last long; Ella gave up soon after that, and John couldn’t help but be glad. Therapy made him feel guilty. He and Ella parted on the same terms as always:  a “Same time as next week?” followed by a “Yeah, sure.” An awkward nod of the head later and John was free to go. ‘Free’ in this case, however, had variable definitions.

Outside, the weather was rather nice for late January, the storm last night having made way for a much more pleasant climate. John decided to take the long way home through the park. After all, it’s not as if he had anything better to do.

The park was nice enough. It was quiet—surprisingly so, considering it was nearing midday. Only the distant murmur of London traffic was audible some number of streets away. Still, it was too much, the echo too oppressive, so John started counting his footsteps.

Step, step, _click_.

Step, step, _click_.

Step, step, _click_.

He became so engrossed in counting his mechanical steps, in fact, that he almost missed a man’s voice calling his name.

“John! John Watson!”

John turned to see the round face of a man who had been sitting at a nearby bench. He stared blankly for a moment as the man approached him—a man who, upon closer inspection, he recognised.

“Stamford!” the man exclaimed, smiling and holding out his hand in greeting. “Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”

“Yes,” John smiled bleakly, taking the proffered hand. He hadn’t anticipated running into an old friend, and wondered if it made him a bad person to wish that he hadn’t. “Sorry, yes, Mike. Hello, hi.”

Stamford grinned at him and nonchalantly gestured to himself. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I got fat.”

“No, no.” John shook his head and tried to sound convincing. Stamford, however, didn’t seem to mind.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at!” he said. “What happened?”

John dropped Stamford’s hand to clutch again at his cane and automatically glanced down at his bad leg. “I got shot,” he said, not looking Stamford in the eye.

Stamford’s good-natured smile wavered, and John couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor bastard. He didn’t know, after all.

“That’s—”

“Yeah,” John cut him off. “I know.”

He hated this part, the part where people switched over to their ‘pity faces’ and tried to tell him that they were “so sorry for you, dear, it must be horrible” and tried to offer unsolicited comfort, like they somehow understood just how he felt. Or, even worse, when people took one look at his suddenly visible cane and then purportedly had to dash off to a previously unmentioned engagement, as if they were repelled by being in such close proximity to just a fraction of the tragedy of the war that they skimmed over in the papers with their coffee in the morning. Nothing had ever made John feel so utterly _useless_.

He and Stamford shared that moment of silence while the dull hum of London traffic continued to murmur in the distance. John was about to bid an awkward farewell and regret not taking the tube back to his flat, but, somehow, Stamford spoke first.

“Do you want to get coffee?”

John stared at him. “Sorry?”

“Coffee,” Stamford repeated. “I’m on my break. There’s a little café just ‘round that corner that isn’t half bad and I’m not due back until after one.”

Somewhat baffled, John exhaled a laugh and nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Alright. That sounds—yeah.”

Stamford smiled broadly and straightened his coat, and John silently hoped that this wasn’t going to be an encounter that he would live to regret. Catching up with old acquaintances hadn’t exactly gone smoothly ever since he got back to London; the only person that John had wanted to see was Bill Murray, the doctor who had saved his life in Afghanistan, but even he was now happily married, unintentionally and unknowingly mocking John’s emotional isolation with every mention of his new wife. As John had soon found out, no-one wanted an emotionally starved Army doctor with a limp for a romantic partner, and he didn’t want to force that onto anyone in turn, so he was alone.

The café was small and crowded, so Stamford offered to buy their coffee while John waited outside. Had it been anyone else, John would have suspected that the gesture was out of some twisted moral obligation that probably had something to do with his cane, but John had known Stamford well enough while they were studying at Bart’s to know that it was the same gesture of kindness that he would show anyone, limp or not, just because he was a good bloke with his heart in the right place.

“Here,” Stamford said, holding out a takeaway coffee cup. “I couldn’t remember how you liked it so I asked for it with no sugar and brought some packets instead.”

John gave a small smile and took the coffee. “Thanks, mate.”

“No problem,” Stamford said, taking a sip of his own. “Be careful, it’s a little hot.”

John thanked him again and the two sat down on a nearby bench. Wondering how to continue the conversation, John glanced around the park and took a swig of his coffee before turning back to Stamford, who didn’t look nearly as uncomfortable as John felt.

“You still at Bart’s, then?” he asked.

Stamford nodded. “Yeah, teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!”

He laughed, and John felt himself chuckle too at the memory of life before the war. Their pure naivety alone was comedic in itself, and John found the nostalgia somewhat comforting.

“What about you, then?” Stamford asked. “Just staying in town ‘til you get yourself sorted?”

John huffed, amused. “I can’t afford London on an Army pension.”

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else,” Stamford laughed. “That’s not the John Watson I knew.”

“Yeah,” John said, somewhat harsher than he had intended, “I’m not the John Watson…”

He caught himself before he could say anything more, and Stamford awkwardly looked away, clearly understanding his mistake. John’s hand began to shake and he switched his cup of coffee to his right hand, clenching his left into a fist in an attempt to stop the tremor. Stamford sipped his own coffee and looked back at John, still undeterred.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” he asked.

John shook his head, remembering the bitter, angry, drunk texts Harry had sent him the previous night. “Yeah, like _that’s_ going to happen.”

Stamford shrugged in understanding. “I dunno,” he continued. “Get a flatshare or something.”

“Come on,” John said. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?” He didn’t feel the need to elaborate further; Stamford had seen enough in the twenty minutes since they’d met to know what he meant.

Instead, Stamford’s eyebrows furrowed in thought and he began to chuckle. John looked at him in question. “What?”

“Well,” Stamford said, “you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

For the first time in months, curiosity sparked in the back of John’s mind. “Who was the first?”

“Friend of mine,” Stamford replied. “Well, sort of. He should still be at Bart’s now, if you wanted to meet him.”

“He works there too?” John asked.

Stamford laughed. “God, no.”

He didn’t elaborate, and John didn’t question further. “Come on,” Stamford said, standing up and gesturing in the direction of the hospital, “I’ll introduce you.”

“Are you sure?” John asked, gripping the handle of his cane and standing, minding his bad leg. “I mean, well—you know, I don’t really exactly get on with people very well anymore. Not since—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Stamford interrupted, smiling. “I have a feeling he’ll like you just fine.”

Intrigued, John shook his head and huffed a laugh. “All right,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Stamford grinned and the two of them made their way out of the park and down to Bart’s Hospital. John tried to inquire about Stamford’s mysterious friend, but he blankly refused to describe him.

“You’ll just have to wait to meet him,” Stamford said. “He outdoes any explanation I could give you.”

Of course, this only drew John in further.

A short walk later and John found himself back in the familiar corridors of Bart’s. Stamford took a left toward the labs and John followed him until they stopped in front of the last door on the right. Stamford peered in through the window, smiled, and gave a brief knock before opening the door. He entered the lab and held the door for John, who nodded appreciatively and followed, glancing around the room.

“Well,” he said, “it’s a bit different from my day.”

Stamford smiled and nodded. “You have no idea.”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

John turned to source the unfamiliar voice when his eyes landed on a man a few tables down, back straight and delicately holding a pipette filled with… something. He was dressed in a suit that looked much more expensive than any John had ever owned, and he had delicate, pale features that were framed by a dark mass of curls. He contrasted greatly with Stamford’s rounder, red-faced complexion, and John’s own more golden hair and skin, bleached and tanned by the Afghan sun.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Stamford asked the man, who still hadn’t glanced in their direction.

“I prefer to text,” he replied curtly.

Stamford set down his briefcase and rummaged briefly in his pockets. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s in my coat.”

“Uh, here,” John said, reaching into his own pocket without a second thought. “Use mine.”

It was only then that it appeared that the man realised that Stamford hadn’t entered the lab alone.

“Oh,” he said, somewhat surprised. “Thank you.” He glanced over to Stamford before looking back to John, who held out his phone in offering.

The man stood up from his place at the lab bench and walked over to accept John’s phone, buttoning up his suit jacket as he did so. He was taller than both himself and Stamford, John observed, and probably slightly younger. The man looked somewhat odd, but John couldn’t decide if it was more to do with his aristocracy—in both manner and appearance—or his intelligent, inquisitive eyes, which were currently locked onto John’s own.

“An old friend of mine, John Watson,” Stamford said, introducing them. John had almost forgotten that he was in the room, he was so caught up in the stranger’s gaze.

Lips curling at the edges in an expression that he could only describe as smug, the man accepted John’s phone and turned partially away from him, flipped the keypad open, and began to type.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said, not taking his eyes away from the phone.

John frowned at him and looked over to Stamford, who smiled knowingly at him. The man continued to type.

“Sorry?” John asked, thinking he might have misunderstood the question.

“Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?”

This time, the man looked back at John, his eyebrows raised expectantly, awaiting an answer. John hesitated and glanced again at Mike, who nodded at him encouragingly.

“Afghanistan,” John answered, his voice wary. “Sorry, but how did you…?”

“Ah, Molly!” the man interrupted, looking past John to the door of the lab, which had just been opened by a young woman wearing a lab coat. “Coffee! Thank you.”

Molly timidly handed over a mug of coffee and the man gave a quick smile before immediately frowning at her.

“What happened to the lipstick?” he asked, handing the phone back to John, who looked around the room, uncomfortable at the sudden intrusion. Stamford didn’t seem to be uncomfortable at all. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying himself.

“It, uh, wasn’t working for me,” Molly said, giving an awkward smile.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement,” the man replied, seemingly surprised at her statement. “Your mouth’s too small now.”

He turned away and walked back over to his bench. John wondered what kind of a man gave honest makeup advice to a woman in a laboratory. His mind supplied an answer and he tamped it down, ignoring his stereotypical thoughts.

Molly’s smile faltered. “Okay,” she said, her voice small and defeated, before scuttling back toward the door.

The man took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, putting it down before turning his attention to his laptop. He didn’t look back at either John or Stamford.

“How do you feel about the violin?” the man asked.

John looked over his shoulder to see that Molly had already left the room. He looked then to Stamford, who smiled, but didn’t answer the question. John could only assume that meant it was directed at him.

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” The man stopped typing to look at John inquisitively. “Will that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

He smiled in a way that was either mocking or teasing, but John found that he couldn’t tell the difference. He looked blankly at the man before turning to Stamford for answers.

“Oh, so you… you told him about me?” he asked.

Stamford shook his head as he inspected a beaker. “Not a word.”

John looked back at the man, confused, and couldn’t help but feel like there was a joke here that he didn’t understand. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did,” the man said, his back to them as he pulled on a long, dark coat. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now, here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked, intrigued. The man wrapped a thin scarf around his neck and continued to gather his things.

The man ignored his question, checked his phone, and walked back over to John. “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we should be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry—got to dash,” he quipped, smirking, “I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John stood there, baffled at the exchange. And, though he might not know better anymore, it felt like he was being _flirted_ with. Who knew, though? Maybe mentioning riding crops in casual conversation wasn’t as suggestive as he thought it was.

“Is that it, then?” he asked hurriedly, before the man could walk out the door.

“Is that what?” The man turned back to him, hands in his pockets, one brow raised challengingly.

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat,” John deadpanned, still confused but now more intrigued than ever—was this man inviting him to be his roommate, or was he asking John on a date?

The man looked at him innocently. “Problem?”

John smiled in disbelief and looked across to Stamford in hope of some help, but his friend seemed to be content observing and didn’t offer a word. John turned back to the man, whose eyes expressed amusement under dark lashes.

“We don’t know a thing about each other,” John said. “I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your _name_.”

The man’s eyes narrowed playfully as he examined John closely. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan,” he started, tone and gaze sharpening. “I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic—more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.” John stared at the man in disbelief, opening his mouth to speak, but he wasn’t finished. “And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic—quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

John looked down at his leg and cane, suddenly self-conscious of his limp, and wondered how on earth this man could have _possibly_ known that it was psychosomatic. Even Harry didn’t know that.

“That’s enough to be going on,” the man finished, lips quirked up in a self-satisfied smile. “Don’t you think?”

He turned to leave the lab and John stared blankly, shocked, at where he had been standing.As if he had second thoughts about his abrupt dismissal, the man leaned back in through the open door, his eyes twinkling smugly.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He grinned at John and had the audacity to _wink_ at him before turning to Stamford. “Afternoon!”

Stamford raised a hand in farewell as Sherlock Holmes left the room, coat sweeping out widely as the door slammed behind him. Just like that, he was gone.

John stared at the door, his head buzzing with far more questions than answers, and looked over to Stamford, who simply smiled and said, “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

John’s stay at the hospital didn’t last long after Sherlock’s departure; it was nearing the end of Stamford’s break and John still needed to pick up those groceries, but his mind was spinning after his and Sherlock’s conversation.

“Are you going to see him, then?” Stamford asked, interrupting John’s thoughts as they shook hands.

John blinked, dazed. “Pardon?”

“Sherlock,” Stamford clarified. “Tomorrow. Are you going to see him? At Baker Street.”

John thought about it for a moment. Sherlock was a strange man, and not the type of person John would have previously considered as a potential flatmate at all. But, still, there was something about this man, something that had latched itself onto the back of John’s mind, and he found that despite their strange encounter, he really did want to go meet with him. It felt strange—almost indulgent.

“Yeah,” John said, smiling. “Yeah, I think I will.”

Stamford clapped him on the back. “Good man,” he said, grinning. “I had a feeling he’d like you.”

Whatever Stamford meant by the statement, John didn’t question it. He was too busy thinking about the next time he’d see Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Later that afternoon, after John returned to his bedsit with the groceries, he fished his phone out of his pocket and sat down on his bed. He couldn’t help but be curious, so he checked his sent messages to read what Sherlock had been texting. He had hoped that it would provide some explanation to his character, but all it did was confuse him even more.

> _If brother has green ladder  
> _ _arrest brother._  
>  _SH_

‘Arrest brother’ couldn’t be interpreted in many different ways. Arrest meant arrest. Arrest can’t mean anything other than arrest. But why was Sherlock Holmes calling for an arrest?

After several minutes of pondering the text, John shoved his phone back into his pocket, sat down at his desk and pulled out his laptop. He closed the webpage showing his blog, and only hesitated for a moment before typing ‘Sherlock Holmes’ into the search bar.

The search results showed a single website: _The Science of Deduction._

John read through the site, which was apparently Sherlock’s own blog. He skimmed through most of it, but was able to come to one logical conclusion about him: he was absolutely mad. And for some bizarre reason, John felt compelled to write about him.  
He entitled the post ‘A Strange Meeting.’

> _I don’t know how I’m meant to be writing this. I’m not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn’t because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened._

John paused for a moment and bit his lip before continuing.

>   _I was walking in the park and I bumped into Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students. We got coffee and I mentioned that I wanted to move. He said he knew of someone in a similar situation. So we went to Bart’s and he introduced us._
> 
> _Except, he didn’t. He didn’t introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I’d served in Afghanistan and he knew I’d been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn’t get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn’t told him._

It didn’t occur to John that this was the most he’d ever considered posting on his blog. But he kept writing, as if writing this post was going to somehow make sense of everything that had transpired.

> _I googled him when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website, The Science of Deduction._
> 
> _It’s mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quire rude and he looks about 12 and he’s clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._
> 
> _So tomorrow, we’re off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes._

John posted it before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, let out a deep breath, and leaned back in his chair. So, perhaps he wasn’t entirely honest; saying that Sherlock looked about 12 was slightly unnecessary hyperbole. It was better than the alternative. John couldn’t afford to like someone like Sherlock Holmes.

His head somewhat clearer, John closed his laptop and placed it back in the drawer, ready to prepare himself a cup of tea before bed. John closed the drawer, and didn’t give his gun a second glance.

* * *

When John opened his laptop the next morning after brewing his usual cup of coffee, he found that Harry and Bill Murray had taken to conversing in the comments. Again.

> _W_ _hat the...?!?!_  
>  Harry Watson
> 
> _Mate, have you gone gay?_  
>  Bill Murray
> 
> _Hahahahaha!! He can’t be! The way he used to look at Clara!_  
>  Harry Watson
> 
> _Any word from her?_  
>  Bill Murray
> 
> _Nah. It's fine. Anyway we're talking about my brother!!_  
>  Harry Watson

John downed the rest of his coffee and brought his fingers to his temples. He re-read his post from the night before and grimaced, knowing that it sounded more like something found in a purple diary under a pillow than on the public blog of a retired soldier.

> _Can’t you two email each other or something? This is meant to be for me to record my thoughts  
> _ John Watson

He knew that his response wasn’t going to do anything; it would take more than that to get Harry off of his back. John wished quite frequently that he was an only child, and Harry, as the years went on, had only fuelled this desire, uncouth as it might be. Harry had to know that John had never looked at Clara like that, that he wasn’t jealous of Harry for having Clara. It was far more complicated than that, and sometimes John wished that it was as simple as quietly pining for his sister-in-law. Ex sister-in-law, now. Clara was lovely and kind and witty, and deserved so much more than Harry could give her, even Harry knew that.

But what Clara had represented to him…that’s what John had wanted: a place to find comfort and support and love, someone to care for. John was a doctor. Caring for people was his job, it was his purpose. And now, as he gazed around the dingy room, he knew that he couldn’t even care for himself.

His cane felt heavy in his hand and John remembered the gun in his drawer.

Turning away, John made his way into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, his cane leaning against the sink. He stared at himself for a while, his mind somehow drifting back to Sherlock Holmes and wondering how a man could read his life story just by looking at his face.

John stood there for a long while, looking, trying to see what Sherlock saw. He didn’t understand; the man must be mad. When John looked at his reflection, he didn’t see his military records or his doctorate or his history of unsuccessful therapy. John saw tired eyes and thin lips and worry lines that weren’t carried by most young men. He saw simple clothes shielding a body that wasn’t as strong as it looked. Flexing his shoulders and straightening his back John stood to attention the way he used to, in the hopes of once more seeing the soldier he had been. For a moment, John thought that he could see Captain Watson in the mirror, but it faded before he could get a closer look.

He shook his head and splashed his face with water, trying to shake the sound of gunfire from the back of his mind.

Back in the other room, John’s laptop sounded a notification. He sighed and sat back down at his desk to view the new comment on his blog. It was from Bill, not Harry.

> _Not denying it then?_  
>  Bill Murray

John frowned at the comment and tried not to retaliate too hard. He wasn’t gay, that much was true, but if Sherlock was, he didn’t mind at all. So that’s what he said.

> _I'm not gay. He might be. I don't know. It doesn't matter._  
>  John Watson

It wasn’t a lie. But it certainly didn't feel like the entire truth. Bill didn’t need to know that. Neither did Sherlock, as far as John was concerned.

* * *

That evening at seven o’clock, John walked past the final few houses on Baker Street before number 221. 221B was a black door with a gold knocker next to a shop with a red banner that read ‘Speedy’s Lunch Bar & Café’ in strong white letters. John knocked on the door of 221B and heard a car pull up on the kerb behind him.

“Hello.”

John turned to see Sherlock thanking a cab driver, wearing a different suit but the same coat as he had been the day before.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John said, extending his hand in greeting.

“Sherlock, please,” he replied, taking John’s outstretched hand and shaking it.

John immediately dropped his gaze and gripped at his cane. “Well, this is a prime spot,” he stated. “Must be expensive.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady – she’s given me a special deal. Owes me a favour,” Sherlock explained, speaking to what must have been a very interesting spot over John’s left shoulder. “A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?” John asked, stunned.

“Oh, no,” Sherlock replied, finally catching his eye. “I ensured it.”

Before John could make heads or tails of it, the door to 221B opened and Sherlock stepped up to tightly embrace the woman behind it, whose arms had opened graciously when she saw him.

“Sherlock,” she smiled, releasing him. “Oh, hello, dear.”

Sherlock stepped down from the doorstep to let John into view. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “this is Doctor John Watson.”

“Hello,” Mrs. Hudson said, this time her warm smile directed at John. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” John nodded at her and stepped over the threshold, with Sherlock close behind.

Once they were inside and the door closed behind them, Sherlock looked at John and gestured at the stairs. “Shall we?”

John nodded and his cane was a deadweight in his hand. He gazed up the stairs after Sherlock, who had bounded up them to the first floor landing. With a clenched jaw, John followed him up the best he could, willing his leg to be kind to him today.

Once he made it up the stairs, John found Sherlock waiting patiently for him by the door to the flat. John nodded appreciatively and Sherlock opened the door for them both, and John watched as he stepped proudly into the centre of the room.

John looked around the living room and nodded to himself. It was more spacious than he had expected, with tall bookshelves framing either side of a large fireplace, in front of which sat two large armchairs. Opposite the fireplace on the other side of the room was a large couch and coffee table, and separating the two was a hardwood desk. Above the desk, a strange animal skull was mounted to the wall between two grand windows. John turned around to take in the rest of the flat, first its odd wallpaper, and then the snug kitchen that branched off the near side of the living room, and then of course the monumental amount of clutter that really had to be sorted. Despite its eccentricities, John liked it.

“Well,” he said, “this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”

Sherlock smiled and breathed what John was class as a small sigh of relief, had it been anyone else. “Yes. Yes, my thoughts precisely.”

There was a comfortable pause, and then the two began to speak.

“Just as soon as we get this rubbish cleaned up…”

“So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

John paused, realising that he had just mistaken all of Sherlock’s belongings for boxes of rubbish, and shifted in his place. “So this is all…?”

Sherlock, clearly embarrassed, stepped across the room and began to shuffle his things around, trying to minimise some of the mess. “Well, um,” he said, throwing some folders into a box, “obviously I can, uh, straighten things up a bit,”

John moved to protest but Sherlock, with his back to him, didn’t notice. Instead, John watched as Sherlock moved in a haste of billowing coats, taking a small pile of unopened envelopes from the coffee table on one side of the room over to the fireplace on the other, before placing them on the mantelpiece and stabbing them through with a penknife. Next to the mutilated letters, John noticed something else.

“That’s a skull,” he said, gesturing to it with his cane.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock smiled back, before pausing to revaluate. “Well,” he continued, “when I say ‘friend’…”

Anything John might have asked about Sherlock’s ‘friend’ was cut off by Mrs. Hudson, who had come up the stairs behind them.

“What do you think then, Doctor Watson?” she asked, picking up a teacup and saucer from the coffee table as Sherlock took off his coat and scarf. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who had is back to them, and then back to Mrs. Hudson. “Well, of course we’ll be needing two…”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear!” Mrs. Hudson fussed. “There’s all sorts ‘round here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got _married ones_.” She said ‘married ones’ in a strong whisper as she gestured to number 223. It dawned on John a second too late that she thought he and Sherlock were _together_. He looked over to Sherlock again, expecting him to confirm to Mrs. Hudson that they weren’t involved in that way, but Sherlock simply continued his awkward mission to tidy up. John wondered for a moment if Sherlock actually knew what was being insinuated.

He decided that he wasn’t going to question it, and so he brushed off the armchair closest to the kitchen, fixed the cushion, and sat down, resting his leg after climbing the stairs. While Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, John watched Sherlock for a brief moment, before deciding that it was time for at least a partial explanation, or, at the very least, conformation that Sherlock Holmes was as mad as a hatter.

“I looked you up on the Internet last night,” John said.

This apparently sparked Sherlock’s interest, as he turned to face him, the movement smooth and elegant. “Anything interesting?”

“I found your website. ‘The Science of Deduction.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quipped upward. “What did you think?”

John said nothing and raised an eyebrow, still not convinced of Sherlock’s honesty on the blog. Sherlock’s face fell into a frown.

“You said that you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb,” John said, in the belief that this was enough to justify his scepticism.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?” John asked.

Sherlock simply turned away, smiling to himself, and John still felt like there was a joke that he wasn’t in on.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson came back into the living room, this time holding today’s newspaper. “I thought that’d be right up your street. _Three_! All exactly the same.”

John heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the flat, and Sherlock moved over to the window and pushed back to curtain to look.

“Four,” he said, voice grave as he peered out to Baker Street. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson asked, glancing between Sherlock by the window and the paper in her hands. John stared at Sherlock, only breaking his stare from the elegant silhouette at the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

A young yet silver-haired man wearing a dark coat strode into the room, and John watched as Sherlock whirled around to face him. The intruder made no move to acknowledge either John or Mrs. Hudson, but looked at Sherlock right in the eyes, his shoulders tense and his face morphed with regret.

“Where?” Sherlock asked, not seeming to bother with introductions.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the man replied.

Sherlock frowned. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

John watched the exchange intently, soaking up every word.

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded.

“This one did. Will you come?”

This had apparently sparked Sherlock’s interest, and John watched as the excitement danced on the corners of his mouth and his eyes.

“Who’s on forensics?” he asked.

“Anderson.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant!”

“But I _need_ an assistant!” Sherlock protested.

The man ignored him. “Will you come?”

For a brief second, John’s heart leapt wildly in his chest and he momentarily hoped that Sherlock would ask him to fill that position; the near promise of being useful again – of _some_ kind of adventure – was fare more tempting to him than wasting away alone in a dingy bedsit. But Sherlock did no such thing, and John sat in silence.

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock replied. “I’ll be right behind.”

John saw the tension in the man’s shoulders release as he let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said, before leaving the apartment and going back down the stairs.

At the sound of the front door slamming, a wide grin spread across Sherlock’s face and he leapt into the air, clenching his fists in excitement.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed, twirling around the room with the most enthusiasm John had seen in a very long time. “Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

He picked up his coat and scarf headed for the kitchen, not sparing John a second glance. John supposed that he had been right all along: Sherlock Holmes was barking mad.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late,” Sherlock continued. “Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson quipped.

“Something cold will do! John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

John couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach as Sherlock left the apartment without him.

“Look at him, dashing about!” Mrs. Hudson said pleasantly. “ _My_ husband was just the same.”

Not knowing how to reply, John said nothing.

“But you’re the more sitting down type,” she continued, turning toward the kitchen. “I can tell. I’ll get you that cuppa and you rest your leg.”

“ _Damn_ my leg!” John said, with much more force than was necessary. But, in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t seem to control himself. His _bloody_ leg was the reason he was in this mess. He was supposed to be a soldier, he was supposed to be in Afghanistan, and not sitting in a chair while his madman of a flatmate was gallivanting around London doing God knows what and his landlady made him a cup of tea.

Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman, had gasped at his outburst and turned back to him shock.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” John said, immediately apologetic. “It’s just that this _bloody_ thing…” He trailed off and hit his bad leg with his cane.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and waved it off. “I understand, dear,” she said. “I’ve got a hip.”

“A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you,” John nodded, picking up the newspaper that she’d left on the arm of his chair.

“Just this once, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got them.”

“ _Not_ your housekeeper.”

She left the flat and went downstairs, and John folded the newspaper in half, skimming the headlines. His eyes narrowed at the story on the front page, ‘Transport Minister Third Suicide.’ It was the third suicide that he’d heard about on the radio, the ones he’d written about on his blog just the other day. But it wasn’t the large picture of Beth Davenport that had caught his attention. No, underneath the headline was another picture, one of the man that asked Sherlock to come with him to Brixton. And underneath _this_ picture was a small caption:

> _DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation._

Detective Inspector Lestrade. What would a Detective Inspector want with Sherlock Holmes? Before he could read more, Sherlock’s voice interrupted him.

“You’re a doctor.”

John put down the paper and looked to Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway putting on his gloves and had apparently been waiting outside for Mrs. Hudson to leave.

“In fact, you an Army doctor.”

“Yes.” John staggered to his feet as Sherlock walked toward him.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then?” Sherlock asked. “Violent deaths?”

John frowned. “Yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I’ll bet.”

“Yes, of course,” John said quietly. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Sherlock smirked. It was almost seductive. “Do you want to see some more?”

“Oh, _God_ , yes!”

Grinning broadly, Sherlock spun on his heels and lead the way out of the door and down the stairs. John followed him as fast as his leg would allow, and called out to their landlady.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea,” he said. “Off out.”

She was there when he and Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs. “Both of you?”

“Impossible suicides? Four of them?” Sherlock gushed, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her loudly on the cheek. “There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something _fun_ going on!”

Mrs. Hudson looked from Sherlock to John and tried not to smile. “Look at you, all happy,” she chided. “It’s not decent.”

“Who cares about decent?” Sherlock opened the front door and gestured for John to follow him, which he did, eagerly. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

John followed Sherlock out onto Baker Street and closed the door to 221B behind them. Sherlock hailed a taxi and the two got in, the air between them thick with anticipation. John, still feeling uncomfortable staring at Sherlock for too long, divided his attention between the busy roads outside the cab window and Sherlock, who was studying his smartphone intently.

They sat in silence for a long while and a million and one questions floated in and out of John’s mind, each more complicated than the last. Sherlock, however, seemed completely at ease leaning elegantly against the cab door, his face illuminated by the light from his screen.

Just when the silence was becoming almost unbearable, Sherlock lowered his phone and turned to John. “Okay, you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah, where are we going?” John asked, every other question he had come up with suddenly evaporating.

“Crime scene,” Sherlock answered. “Next.”

“Who are you?” John continued. “What do you do?”

“What do you think?”

John thought for a moment, hesitant. “I’d say private detective…”

“But?”

“But,” he continued, “the police don’t go to private detectives.”

Sherlock smiled, apparently pleased with this answer. “I’m a _consulting_ detective,” he explained. “I’m the only one in the world. I invented the job.”

This still didn’t explain much but, at this point, John didn’t find that surprising at all. “What does that mean?”

“It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult _me._ ”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs.”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as John found him subjected to a very poignant _look_ , so tastefully executed that he wondered if Sherlock had practiced it in front of a mirror.

“When I met you for the first time yesterday I asked you ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’,” Sherlock stated. “You looked surprised.”

“Yes,” John affirmed. “How _did_ you know?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I didn’t know; I _saw_. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor – obvious.”

John stared at him and opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sherlock paid no attention and continued.

“Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing.” Sherlock looked down to John’s cane and then to his bad leg. “Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

Lost for words, John racked his mind for something to say. “You said I had a therapist,” he managed.

“You have a psychosomatic limp,” Sherlock stated. “Of course you have a therapist. Then there’s your brother.”

“What?”

“Your phone.” Sherlock held out his hand and John fished it out of his coat, handing it to him. “It’s expensive. E-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re looking for flatshare; you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.”

Turning the phone over in his hand, Sherlock ran his fingers against the back. “Scratches,” he said. “Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pockets as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving,” John supplied, watching Sherlock tap the words with his forefinger.

>   _Harry Watson  
>  From Clara  
>  xxx_

Sherlock hummed in agreement and resumed his monologue. “Harry Watson…clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. It could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, _Clara_. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s romantic attachment and the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then – six months on and he’s just given it away. If she’d left _him_ , he would have kept it. People do; sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to _you_ , and that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation but you’re not going to your brother for help? That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

“How could you _possibly_ know about the drinking?” John asked, completely baffled.

“Shot in the dark,” Sherlock smiled. “Good one, though. The power connection: tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.”

He handed John back the phone, who took it and placed it back into his pocket.

“There you go, you see – you were right,” Sherlock said.

“ _I_ was right?” John asked. “Right about what?”

“The police _don’t_ consult amateurs.” He turned away from John, who gazed at him in amazement. For a moment, they lapsed into silence.

“That…” John began, his mind buzzing as he tried to comprehend even a small percentage of what had transpired. “That was…amazing.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to look at him, and he stared at John so intently that he wondered if he’d said something wrong. For the first time since they’d met, Sherlock Holmes appeared to be struck dumb.

“Do you really think so?” he asked, after a long stretch of silence.

“Of _course_ it was,” John gaped. “It was extraordinary; it was _quite_ extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock admitted.

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off.’”

John laughed and shook his head, and Sherlock chuckled along with him before turning to gaze out of the cab window.

“We’re here,” he said, the cab slowing down and stopping a few hundred feet away from a road barricaded by police tape. The street was illuminated by the red and blue flashing lights from both the police cars and an ambulance, and Sherlock thanked and paid the cabbie before leaping out, bounding around the back of the cab, and opening the door for John before he could even reach for his cane.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, leading John toward the police tape.

“Harry and me don’t get on,” John admitted. “Never have. Harry and Clara split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce. Harry’s a drinker.”

Sherlock looked mildly impressed. “Really?” he asked. “I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

John smirked. “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

Realisation dawning on his face, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and groaned. “Harry’s your _sister_.”

“Look,” John said, diverting back to the situation at hand. “What am I supposed to be doing here?”

“ _Sister_!”

John looked around uncomfortably, noticing that they were at the receiving end of quite a few dirty looks from the officers surrounding the scene.

“No, seriously,” he said, much quieter should any of them be listening. Vulnerability wasn’t very attractive at the current moment. “What am I doing here?”

“There’s always _something_!”

Sherlock, still apparently hung up on his mistake (and quite an understandable one, at that), ignored him and marched up to the police tape, where he was met by a dark-skinned police officer with sharp eyes and a disapproving mouth.

“Hello, freak,” she jeered.

“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his voice cool and scarily monotonous. It struck John that this was Sherlock being professional.

“Why?” the officer interrogated.

“I was invited.”

“ _Why_?”

“I _think_ he wants me to take a look.” John could tell that Sherlock had very little patience for this woman, and he wondered if she always taunted him like that; it was obvious even without Sherlock’s deductive genius that the two did not get on.

“Well you know what _I_ think,” she chided, “don’t you?”

Sherlock smiled pleasantly and lifted the police tape, ducking under it. “Always, Sally,” he said, then taking a dramatic breath in through his nose. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I don’t…” she began, before finally noticing John. She jabbed a finger in his general direction and turned back to Sherlock. “Who’s this?”

“Colleague of mine,” Sherlock replied. “Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson, Sargent Sally Donovan. Old friend.”

John smiled, but it was lost on her.

“A colleague?” she asked. “How do you get a colleague” Then, she turned to John. “Did he follow you home?”

Caving under the tension, John turned to Sherlock. “Would it be better if I just waited and–”

But Sherlock lifted the police tape defiantly and John, who apparently had no other choice, stepped through.

Donovan scowled at Sherlock and John stepped between them, defensive of his new…colleague.

“Freak’s here,” Donovan said into a radio, deciding not to pick a fight. “Bringing him in.”

She turned away from them and began to walk toward and old house swarming with police officers and people in protective clothing. Sherlock walked beside him, and John found the gesture oddly comforting. He watched intently as Sherlock’s eyes roamed over their surroundings, analytical and inquisitive as they approached the façade of the old house.

The door to the house opened and from it emerged a small team of forensic investigators, all wearing the same protective coveralls. One of them, a sour-faced man with thin lips and dark hair, approached them, glaring a Sherlock with obvious distaste.

“Ah, Anderson,” Sherlock said, addressing him pleasantly. “Here we are again.”

Anderson pursed his lips. “It’s a crime scene,” he sneered. “I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”

“Quite clear,” Sherlock smiled. He then took in another deep breath through his nose, just like he had next to Donovan. “And, uh, is your wife away for long?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out,” Anderson scoffed. “Somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that.”

“My deodorant?” Anderson took a step toward Sherlock and crossed his arms, his glare never once wavering.

“It’s ‘for _men_ ’,” Sherlock dramatized quirkily, as if he were speaking to a child.

Anderson blinked. “Well, of course it’s for men! _I’m_ wearing it.”

“So’s Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said, and John looked over to see that Donovan’s eyes had widened in shock, confirming the accusation. John tried to hide his smile as she and Anderson shared a panicked look, and Sherlock bounced on his heels proudly.

Sherlock sniffed the air again and didn’t look Anderson in the face. “Ooh, and I think it just vaporised,” he said, glancing over to John. “May I go in?”

“Now whatever you’re trying to imply…” Anderson began, angrily pointing a finger at Sherlock.

“I’m not implying _anything_.” He strode up the path to the front door of the house, his eyes wide and innocent. “I’m sure Sally came ‘round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

John ducked his head and tried not to laugh, following Sherlock through the door and into the house and made sure to take a quick glance at Donovan’s knees as he passed her.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” he whispered to Sherlock, who lead him into a small room on the first floor.

Sherlock shrugged. “I know. But my way’s more fun, don’t you think?”

John didn’t reply, as the room was uncomfortably full of officers and investigators, including Detective Inspector Lestrade. They were all wearing the same blue coveralls.

“You need to wear one of these,” Sherlock said, pointing to a pile of the coveralls on a table, and John nodded, leaning his cane against the wall and picking one up.

Lestrade looked at him, confused, and turned to Sherlock. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock answered, curtly.

“But who _is_ he?” Lestrade pressed.

“I _said_ he’s with me.”

John, despite this constant reassurance from Sherlock, really didn’t feel like he belonged beside him at a crime scene. He was very out of place — more so than Sherlock would be at Sunday mass — with his limp and his cane and his wary eyes. For a moment he wished that he was back at Baker Street drinking tea and doing crosswords with Mrs. Hudson; Sherlock appeared to be the only one who wanted him here and, by the looks of things, _Sherlock_ wasn’t even wanted here.

He looked over to Sherlock, who had bypassed him and Lestrade and had picked up a two pairs of latex gloves, handing one over to him.

“Aren’t you going to put one on?” John asked, noting Sherlock’s lack of coverall.

Sherlock shot him a look, and John rolled his eyes and accepted the latex gloves, making no further comment.

“So,” Sherlock said, turning once more to Lestrade. “Where are we?”

“Upstairs,” Lestrade replied, moving over to the staircase.

Sherlock followed him and looked back at John, making sure he was still close behind. John’s cane clunked on the old stairs and he grimaced, wishing that old houses didn’t sound so hollow.

“I can give you two minutes,” Lestrade said as they reached the second flight of stairs.

Sherlock looked up at the winding staircase and put on the latex gloves. “May need longer.”

“Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards,” Lestrade continued. “We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.”

He stopped once they reached the second landing, and John’s bad leg thanked him. Lestrade opened the door and lead them in, Sherlock following quickly and John not too far behind. The air in the room was musty, and the floor was ridden with dust. John looked around, the muted grey of the walls reminding him of his bedsit, and he didn’t find the comparison terribly comforting. The room itself was devoid of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Old scaffolding poles braced the far part of the ceiling, not too far from where a couple of large holes had been knocked through one of the walls. Everything else John assumed had been brought in by the police; portable lighting had been set up, illuminating the room with a weak glow. In the middle of the floor, a beacon within the monochrome walls, lay a woman’s body, face down on the bare floorboards, and dressed head to toe in bright pink. Next to her hand, five letters had been scratched into the floor: RACHE.

First as a doctor, then as a soldier, John had seen many corpses in his life, but the harrowing shock was the same every time.

John looked over to Sherlock, and was surprised to see that, as he stared at the corpse, his face was twisted with regret. The three of them stood in silence, all focused on the body of Jennifer Wilson, before Sherlock whipped his head to look at Lestrade.

“Shut up.”

Startled, Lestrade shook his head. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking,” Sherlock clarified. “It was annoying.”

Lestrade then looked back at John, and the two shared a surprised look. John didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know if he _could_ say anything without disturbing Sherlock, and so didn’t say anything, watching, intrigued, as his flatmate stepped slowly toward the corpse. He moved swiftly, moving around the body with smooth, lithe movements, his coat pooling around his ankles as he crouched down for closer examination. John didn’t know what he was looking for, or if there was anything to be looking for, but, somehow, he knew that if there _was_ , Sherlock Holmes would be the one to find it.

This carried on for another minute before Sherlock abruptly stood up, appearing to have finished his investigation.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shrugged, nonchalant. “Not much,” he admitted. He peeled off the gloves, reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone, and began typing.

“She’s German.”

John turned around to see Anderson leaning casually against the doorway.

“‘Rache’,” he elaborated. “It’s German for ‘revenge’. She could be trying to tell us something—”

He was cut off by Sherlock, who had walked briskly over towards the door and closed it in Anderson’s face, not glancing up from his phone.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” he said. The door slammed loudly and John watched as Sherlock moved to stand in the middle of the room, once more beside the corpse of Jennifer Wilson.

“So she’s German?” Lestrade asked.

“Of course she’s not,” Sherlock replied, not offering anything else on the subject. “She _is_ from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…” He smiled smugly, turned off his phone and pocketed it. “…before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.”

“Sorry,” John said, speaking for the first time since entering the room. “Obvious?”

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade urged.

Sherlock ignored him and turned to John, who faltered slightly at the intensity of his stare.

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

“Of the message?”

“Of the body,” Sherlock clarified. “You’re a medical man.”

Before he could move to get a closer look, Lestrade stepped forward. “Wait, no, we have a whole medical team right outside.”

“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock said, repeating his words from back at Baker Street.

“I’m breaking every rule letting _you_ in here!”

Sherlock smiled through his teeth. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Because you _need_ me.”

Lestrade stared at him defiantly, before lowering his eyes in defeat. “Yes, I do,” he said. “God help me.”

Smiling, much more genuine now, Sherlock turned back to John. “Doctor Watson.”

“Hmm?” John glanced from Sherlock to the body, then from the body to Lestrade, silently seeking his permission to comply with Sherlock’s request.

“Oh, do as he says,” Lestrade muttered. “Help yourself.”

He turned and opened the door, stepping outside and leaving Sherlock and John alone with Jennifer Wilson.

“Anderson, keep everyone out of a couple of minutes.”

Sherlock took that as his cue to move, and he ushered John to where he had stood beside the corpse, squatting down beside it. John followed the best he could, his leg twinging in protest as he awkwardly lowered himself onto one knee, using his cane to support himself the best he could.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, eyes bright and triumphant.

John glanced at the closed door and leaned over the body so Sherlock could hear him.

“What am I doing here?” he asked softly.

“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock answered, mimicking his whisper.

“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yeah, well, this is more fun.”

“Fun?” John questioned. “There’s a woman lying dead.”

“Perfectly sound analysis,” Sherlock noted, “but I _was_ hoping you’d go deeper.”

Well, it was too late to back out now. John dragged his bad leg into a kneeling position and saw Lestrade reenter the room as he leaned in to closer examine the body. First: cause of death. Swallowing and trying not to think about the number of times he had done this in Afghanistan, John put his head close to hers, sniffed, and pulled away, then examining the skin on her right hand before looking again across to Sherlock.

“Yeah…” he began. “Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was,” Sherlock said. “You’ve read the papers.”

John had only read one paper, the one back in 221B, but he knew to what Sherlock was alluding. “What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted. “Two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got.”

Sherlock stood, and John followed, albeit much less gracefully, and leaned  once more on his cane.

“Victim is in her late thirties,” Sherlock began. John recognised that voice; Sherlock had used it twice on him already. That was his deduction voice. “Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly _alarming_ shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Lestrade asked, eyebrows furrowed.

John, sharing his confusion, looked around the room in search of such suitcase. He found none. Sherlock, however, was too wrapped up in his own head to notice.

“Suitcase, yes,” he continued, distractedly moving about the room, his coat flouncing behind him in a dark wave. “She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lestrade moaned. “If you’re just making this up…”

“Her wedding ring,” Sherlock interrupted, pointing down to the woman’s left hand. John saw the wedding ring, and it looked completely unremarkable, exactly like every other wedding ring he’d seen his entire life. “Ten years old at least,” Sherlock stated. “The rest of her jewelery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside — that means it’s regularly removed; the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work. Look at her nails! She doesn’t work with her hands, so what, or rather who, _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

“That’s brilliant.” The words tumbled out of John’s mouth before he could catch himself, and he awkwardly smiled as Sherlock paused to look at him, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he said, urging Sherlock to continue his explanation.

“Cardiff?” Lestrade prompted.

Sherlock frowned. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It’s not obvious to me,” John admitted, knowing he spoke for both himself and the Inspector.

Sherlock looked between the two of them, baffled. “Dear God, what is it like inside your funny little brains? It must be so _boring._ ” And, before either John or Lestrade could get another word in, Sherlock was off again. “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just win, _strong_ wind — too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have coma decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So,” he paused, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff.”

He held out his phone to show John and Lestrade the webpage he was looking at earlier; it displayed today’s weather for southern Britain.

“That’s fantastic!” John gaped, stunned in utter awe at this brilliant madman.

Sherlock turned to him and leaned in. “Do you know you do that out loud?” he asked.

“Sorry,” John apologised. “I’ll shut up.”

“No,” Sherlock countered, quickly dismissing him. “No, it’s…fine.”

John stared up at him in surprise and saw Sherlock give him a brief, shy smile. He realised that Sherlock was pleased with the compliments, he _liked_ the compliments. Then, he remembered earlier in the taxi when Sherlock had deduced him; Sherlock had said that people didn’t usually react well to his deductions. John wondered if there was anyone else at all who thought them to be brilliant, and if Sherlock had ever heard them say it. With that thought in mind, John told himself that, throughout the night, he would remind Sherlock at every possible instance of his mad brilliance. If he got to see that shy, private smile again, it would be worth it.

Lestrade coughed loudly, and John looked away from Sherlock and down and the floorboards.

“Why d’you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade asked.

As if he had just remembered that they were at a crime scene, Sherlock spun around in a circle looking around the room. “Yes,” he muttered. “Where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “She was writing ‘Rachel’?”

“No,” Sherlock retorted sarcastically. “She was leaving an angry not in German. Of _course_ she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question it: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How d’you know she had a suitcase?”

Sherlock pointed down to the corpse. “Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.” He squatted down by the body, fingers ghosting over the backs of her legs as he examined them more closely. “Now,” he said, “where is it? What have you done with it?”

Lestrade shook head and said, “There wasn’t a case.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “Say that again.”

“There wasn’t a case,” Lestrade repeated. “There was never any suitcase.”

At this, Sherlock immediately stood up and headed for the door, walking straight past John and Lestrade and called out to the police officers standing outside. “Suitcase!” he shouted, hurrying back down the stairs. “Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called out behind him. “There was no case!”

“But they take the poison themselves,” Sherlock said, slowing down and looking up the stairwell at them. “They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn’t miss them.”

“Right, yeah, thanks,” Lestrade grumbled. “ _And_ …?”

“It’s murder!” Sherlock expressed, gripping the railing. “All of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings — _serial_ killings.” He clasped his hands together in front of his face in delight. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There’s always something to look forward to.”

Lestrade looked to John who shook his head, having no clue what Sherlock was talking about. “Why are you saying that?” Lestrade asked, shouting down the stairs.

“Her case!” Sherlock gasped, almost having reached the ground floor. “Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case.” Then he spoke more quietly, talking to himself rather than John and the baffled Inspector. “So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel,” John supplied. “Left her case there.”

“No, she never got to the hotel,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “Look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…Oh!”

Sherlock stopped, realisation dawning on his face, and John for the life of him couldn’t understand what it could be.

“ _Oh_!” He spun around in pure delight.

“Sherlock?” John called down to him.

Lestrade leaned over the railing. “What is it,” he asked. “What?”

“Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade said.

Sherlock began to hurry down the last flight of stairs. “Oh, we’re _done_ waiting. Look at her, really _look_! Houston, we _have_ a mistake! Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!” He reached the bottom of the stairs and John watched him disappear from sight.

“Of course, yeah,” Lestrade called, waving the officers around them to follow Sherlock’s instructions. “But what mistake?”

Sherlock ran back into view, his eyes ablaze with excitement. He leapt up the first few stairs and looked fervently from John to Lestrade and back again. “PINK!”

And he was gone again.

Lestrade turned to John, who shook his head, baffled, before going back into the room while Anderson and his team followed closely in his wake.

“Let’s get on with it,” Anderson grumbled, pointedly ignoring John as he passed.

Seemingly forgotten by everyone else, John hesitated on the landing for a moment before deciding to go back downstairs to find Sherlock. He turned to say goodbye to Lestrade but saw that the Inspector was too engrossed with giving stressed orders to his officers to notice John’s awkward fumbling. So, John began the long and painful descent down the stairs. As careful as he was, John was still occasionally knocked about by hurried police officers, who pushed passed him without so much as a second glance. His grip tightened on his cane as his hand threatened a tremor. Slowly, but surely, he eventually made it to the bottom of the stairs, where he removed his coverall and latex gloves, his head bowed so as to attract as little attention as possible. He put on his jacket and left the building, making sure to stay out of the way of the people who were actually supposed to be there. Once he was back out in the street John looked around in search of Sherlock, or for any sign as to where he had gone.

“He’s gone.”

John looked over to Donovan, who was standing back by the police tape.

“Who, Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, walking over to her.

“Yeah, he just took off,” she said. “He does that.”

A heavy weight settled in John’s chest, as he realised that he had been, once again, forgotten. “Is he coming back?”

Donovan shook her head. “Didn’t look like it.”

“Right.” He looked around the street, trying to think of what to do from here. “Right, yes. Sorry, where am I?”

“Brixton.”

“Right. Er, do you know where I could get a cab? It’s just, er…well…” John glanced down at his cane, “my leg.”

Donovan’s face softened slightly and she lifted the police tape. “Yeah,” she said. “Try the main road.”

“Thanks,” John smiled curtly, ducking under the tape. He was about to walk away when Donovan spoke again.

“But you’re not his friend,” she stated, and John turned back to her, confused. “He doesn’t have friends. So who _are_ you?”

“I’m…I’m nobody,” John said. “I just met him.”

“Okay, a bit of advice then,” Donovan offered. “Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “Do you know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be good enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

John stared at her and tried to process her words; they didn’t really make sense. Sure, Sherlock was a bit mad and wasn’t exactly the most tactful of people, be he didn’t seem to be _violent_. “Why would he do that?” John asked finally.

“Because he’s a psychopath,” Donovan said, so nonchalantly that it made John uncomfortable. “And psychopaths get bored.”

Back from the entrance of the house, Lestrade called over to her.

“Donovan!”

“Coming!” she said, before turning back once more to John. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

John watched as she walked toward the house, mulling over what she’d said. From what he had seen, Sherlock was no more than a strange young man with an even stranger mind, but these people had known him for longer than he had and they all hated him, tolerated him at best. Perhaps it was best if he just went home — to his bedsit — and forgot that this had ever happened.

Sighing, John turned away from the scene and began to limp down the street in the direction of the main road. It wasn’t too long before he came to a telephone box, which began to ring as he passed it. John stopped and looked at it for a few seconds, wondering if he should answer it, but decided against it and continued down the road. The phone stopped ringing.

It wasn’t long before John made it to Brixton High Road, and he tried (and failed) to hail a taxi three times before stopping on the corner outside of a busy restaurant. He stood there, defeated, as the wind picked up and nipped through his too-thin coat. As he was about to walk off again, the payphone on the wall of the restaurant began to ring. John looked over at it cautiously, watching as one of the waiters from the restaurant moved to pick it up, but it stopped ringing before the lad had the chance. Shaking his head, John continued on down the road, weaving in and out of the crowd.

He walked firmly past another telephone box determined not to look at it, but it too began to ring. Mystified, John stared at the phone and wondered whether or not he should answer it. Curiosity got the better of him, it always did, as he pulled open the door and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

The line was filled with static, and a man’s steely voice spoke to him. “There is a security camera on the building to your left,” it said. “Do you see it?”

John frowned at the odd message. “Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

He froze when he heard his name, and immediately recognised that he had stepped into something much larger than himself. He looked through the left window of the phone box and scanned the building for the camera. He saw it, a CCTV camera high up on the wall, and pointing straight at him.

“Yeah,” he said into the phone. “I see it.”

“Watch.”

John complied and watched as the camera, which had been pointing straight at him, swiveled away to point at an unremarkable part of the road.

“There is another camera on the building opposite you,” the man said. “Do you see it?”

John looked across the road to the second camera, which was also pointed toward the phone box. He hummed his acknowledgment, staring. The camera immediately swiveled away, just like the first one.

“And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

Like the first two, this camera also turned away, and John was completely off the record. He could disappear right now and no-one would be able to tell what happened to him…

“How are you doing this?” John asked into the phone, growing slightly panicked. He tried to keep himself calm, steadying his balance, but it was months since Afghanistan and he had forgotten what it felt like to be in danger.

A black car pulled up at the kerbside by the telephone box. It was clean and sleek and expensive and obviously well looked after. John’s grip on the phone loosened as the driver got out and opened the door to the back seat.

“I _would_ make some sort of threat,” said the man’s voice on the other end of the line. “But I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

The phone went dead and John put it back down, weighing his options. He _could_ make a run for it, but running was completely out of the question given his leg and, even if he _could_ run, he didn’t think that it would do much good. If whoever had called him was able to watch him from CCTV, then he could be under surveillance anywhere in London; trying to hide seemed quite foolish. Knowing that there wasn’t much that he could do, John left the phone box and got into the car.

An attractive young woman sat next to him behind the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry, ignoring him. Sherlock had ignored him too, and that was why he was in this mess.

“Hello,” John said, hoping to start a conversation (and potentially find out where he was going).

The woman looked up from her phone and smiled brightly at him “Hi,” she said, and turned back to her phone.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Er…” The woman contemplated his question for a minute before answering. “…Anthea.”

John huffed. “Is that your real name?” he asked.

“No.” She smiled at him again in the same way that John suspected she would at a small child. Or a dog.

He twisted around and tried to look out of the rear window, but it was darkly tinted and he couldn’t see anything other than muted lights from cars and street lamps.

“I’m John,” he said, turning back to Not-Anthea.

Not-Anthea smiled down at her BlackBerry. “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

John felt like he should have suspected that. And he was growing quite tired of feeling like everyone else knew more than he did.

“Any point in asking where I’m going?” he asked, growing impatient.

“None at all…John.”

John nodded, his lips pursed. “Okay.”

He didn’t speak again for the rest of the journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, if anyone is interested in being a beta for this, hit me up here or on Tumblr @consultthisdick


	3. Chapter 3

It was a while later when the car pulled to a halt, and John was ushered by the driver from it into an old warehouse. Not-Anthea stayed in the car, not even acknowledging when he said goodbye. It was quiet in the warehouse, and looked like it had not been used in quite some time, yet it was filled with shipping containers and shelves of cardboard boxes. The concrete floor was damp, and John could hear the dripping of leaking pipes echoing around him.

Standing in the shadows a few hundred feet in front of the car was a man, and John walked over to him, shoulders squared and head high - the way that he knew best. The man wore a dark grey three-piece suit and plum-coloured tie, and was leaning casually on an umbrella, watching him.

“Have a seat, John,” he said, pointing with his umbrella to a chair in front of him.

John limped over to him. “You know, I’ve got a phone,” he said, feeling strangely calm despite the partial abduction. “I mean, very clever and all that, but er…you could just phone me. On my phone.”

He glanced around the warehouse and stepped past the chair, stopping a few paces in front of the man. John knew that sitting down would strip him of whatever small amount of power he had in this situation, even if the chair was a kindly gesture considering his leg, and he stared the man square in the face.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “one learns to be discreet. Hence this place.”

Of course. This was about Sherlock.

“The leg must be hurting you,” the man continued. “Sit down.” His voice was forceful and was probably intended to scare John, but he stood his ground.

“I don’t want to sit down,” he said.

The man eyed him curiously with an arched eyebrow.

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John said. Between the man’s receding hairline, posh voice, and apparent need to dress to appear older than he was, his statement was mostly true.

The man chuckled, and then looked at John sternly.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“I don’t have one,” John replied. “I barely know him. I met him…” He trailed off as he realised how little time had actually passed. “Yesterday. I met him yesterday.”

“And since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together,” the man droned. “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

John fought down a flush. “Who  _ are  _ you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock?” John laughed. “Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him,” the man said. “How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what is that?” John asked.

The man shrugged. “An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In  _ his  _ mind, certainly,” the man said, twiddling his umbrella. “If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his  _ arch _ -enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

John looked pointedly around the warehouse and raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he said, “thank God  _ you’re _ above all that.”

The man frowned, and John almost regretted trying to be smart with him. Before he could regret it  _ too  _ much, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket and John opened it, pointedly reading the message and ignoring the man in front of him.

> _ Baker Street. _ __  
>  _ Come at once _ _  
>  _ _ if convenient. _ _  
>  _ __ SH

Sherlock. So he hadn’t been forgotten after all.

“I do hope I’m not distracting you,” the man said, eying John’s phone curiously.

“Not distracting me at all,” John replied. He pocketed his phone.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong…” John began, licking his lips. “But I think that’s none of your business.”

The man smiled at him. “It  _ could  _ be.”

“It  _ really  _ couldn’t.”

Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, the man smiled and produced a small leather notebook. He consulted it as he spoke.

“If you  _ do  _ move into, um…two hundred and twenty-one  _ B _ Baker Street,” he said, “I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

He closed the notebook and put it away.

“Why?” John demanded.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

John stared at him. “In exchange for what?”

“Information,” the man said. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel… _ uncomfortable  _ with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him,” the man sighed, lips pursed. “ _ Constantly _ .”

John huffed. “That’s nice of you,” he said, not believing a word.

“But,” the man continued, “I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a…difficult relationship.”

John’s phone sounded another text alert, and he again fished it out of his coat to read it.

> _ If inconvenient, _ _  
>  _ _ come anyway. _ _  
>  _ _ SH _

For some reason, it made John smile.

“No,” he said, in response to the man’s offer.

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure,” the man said, eyebrows raised.

John put his phone away again and shook his head. “Don’t bother.”

The man cocked his head at him and gave a brief laugh. “You’re very loyal,” he noted, “ _ very  _ quickly.”

“No, I’m not,” John insisted. “I’m just not interested.”

They stared at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to falter. Eventually, the man took out his notebook again and began to read from it.

“‘Trust issues,’ it says here,” he said.

Those were Ella’s notes, John realised, and, for the first time since this conversation began, he felt unnerved and  _ extremely  _ out of his depth.

“What’s that?” he asked, staring at the notebook.

The man didn’t look at him. “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?” he asked.

“Who says I trust him?” John countered.

“You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily,” the man said.

John frowned and his leg twinged. “Are we done?”

The man raised his head, looking away from his notebook, at looked into John’s eyes. “You tell me.”

John didn’t know what to say to him, so he held his head high and turned away, walking back the way the car had come.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him,” the man continued, “but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

It came as an accusation, and John stopped dead and tensed, turning back to face the man.

“My what?” he said, voice low. It was only after this that John realised the true meaning of the man’s words; he was talking about John’s tremor.

The man didn’t seem to pick up on their misunderstanding. “Show me,” he instructed, looking down to John’s hand. He planted the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leaned on it, clearly a man who was used to having his orders obeyed.

John straightened his back and shifted his feet, pressing firmly into the floor, and raised his left hand. He looked at the man in defiance, the message clear: John wasn’t going to move. If the man wanted to examine his hand, he would have to come to  _ him _ . The man realised this and pursed his lips, but didn’t seem to be too disturbed as he casually strolled over to him and took John’s hand in his own.

John pulled back. “Don’t,” he said, voice tense.

The man cocked his head at him and raised his eyebrows. Reluctantly, John lowered his hand and held it flat with the palm facing down staring strongly over the man’s shoulder. The man took John’s hand in both of his own, looking at it closely.

“Remarkable,” he said, turning John’s hand over.

John snatched it away from the man’s grasp. “What is?”

“Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars,” the man said, turning and walking a few paces away. “When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

He turned to look back at John who, by now, was growing defensive.

“What’s wrong with my hand?” he asked.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand,” the man said, and John responsively nodded his head. “Your therapist thinks that it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”

John flinched, the movement small but not unnoticed by the man. He stared ahead and clenched his jaw.

“Who the hell  _ are  _ you?” he croaked, his mouth gone dry. “How do you know that?”

“Fire her,” the man said, again ignoring him. “She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.”

He leaned in close, his face mere inches from John’s own, and he raised his head to look him in the eye.

The man smiled, his voice a whisper. “Welcome back.”

He turned away from John and began to walk away, casually twirling his umbrella as John’s phone sounded a third time.

“Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson,” he said, before disappearing into the shadows.

John watched him leave and wished that he could rip that awful umbrella from his hands. ‘Choose a side’, he had said. John had heard that one before.

Behind him a car door opened and John turned to see Not-Anthea get out of the car and walk towards him, her eyes still glued to the BlackBerry.

“I’m to take you home,” she said, a statement rather than an offer.

John nodded and checked his phone. It was a third message from Sherlock.

> _ Could be dangerous. _ _  
>  _ _ SH _

He put his phone back in his pocket, and held out his left hand in front of him. The man was right. No tremor. He smiled wryly at it and realised that the man was right about another thing, too: nowhere in Hell was John Watson going to stay away from Sherlock Holmes.

“Address?” Not-Anthea asked.

“Baker Street,” he immediately replied. “221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first.”

* * *

Eventually, John made it back to Baker Street. It was a little later than he would have liked, but his bedsit was on the other side of London and traffic wasn’t awfully forgiving, especially at this time of night. In hindsight, John probably didn’t need to go back to the bedsit at all, but he figured that it was better safe than sorry where Sherlock was concerned, and so he sat in the car with Not-Anthea as they pulled up to Baker Street, his handgun at his hip.

“Look,” John said, looking over to her, “your boss — any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?”

“Sure,” she smiled, still riveted by whatever it was she was typing on her phone.

John sighed. “You’ve already told him, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded in resignation and turned to get out of the car but, just as he opened the door, he stopped and turned back to her.

“Hey, um…do you ever get any free time?” he asked.

Not-Anthea chuckled. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Lots.”

John waited for a moment, expectantly awaiting for something to happen. Not-Anthea just continued tapping at her phone and, after realising that he was still there, looked pointedly from him to the door of 221B.

“Bye.”

John took that as his cue to leave. Oh well, it was worth the shot. He got out of the car and closed the door behind him, watching as it pulled away from the kerb before crossing the pavement to 221B. He knocked on the door and waited, but when there was no response he tried the handle, and found that it was left open.

Cautiously he opened the door and crossed the threshold, closing it softly behind him. The hallway was dark, as was the stairwell, and for a moment John wondered if anyone was in. But, when John looked up he could see a faint glow emitting from Sherlock’s — well, his and Sherlock’s — flat. He slowly climbed the stairs, his cane clunking wood-on-wood, and he realised that there was no sound coming from the flat. Nothing, not even the rhythmic hum of evening telly. John’s free hand gripped the gun at his hip, a reflex he was relieved he hadn’t forgotten, and climbed the last few stairs.

Sherlock had said ‘dangerous’, and John didn’t think that it was too much of a leap to think that Sherlock could have gotten himself into some sort of trouble.

When he reached the landing, John paused and listened. Now that he was closer, he heard that the flat wasn’t silent after all; someone was in the living room, breathing heavily, emitting small gasps and groans. John immediately knew that it was Sherlock, his low timbre recognisable anywhere.

Once his immediate fear had subsided, John opened the door and quietly entered the flat.

His first instinct was that he had made a mistake. John saw Sherlock’s lithe body reclined elegantly on the leather couch, mostly hidden from his eye at this angle by its high arms. Sherlock’s head, though, was in perfect view, and it was tipped back in ecstasy, his dark curls framing his face like some kind of warped halo. John froze and hoped that he hadn’t walked in on Sherlock doing what he thought he was doing, his hands clenching in immediate embarrassment. Luckily, however, John stared at Sherlock long enough to realise that he was still fully clothed, and that he was clutching at his arm as if in pain. Sherlock emitted another low groan and John pushed all indecent thoughts out of his mind.

“What are you doing?” he asked, walking further into the room.

“Nicotine patch,” Sherlock said calmly. “Helps me think.” He lifted his right arm into view, and John saw three round patches stuck to it. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

John, still too caught up in shaking  _ things _ from his mind, absentmindedly tried to process what Sherlock had said. “It’s good news for breathing,” he settled on eventually.

“Oh, breathing,” Sherlock dismissed. “Breathing’s  _ boring _ .”

John looked closer at Sherlock’s arm, realising what he had said. “Is that… _ three  _ patches?”

“It’s a three patch problem,” Sherlock replied, bringing his hands together in a prayer-like position under his chin. He closed his eyes, deep in thought.

He didn’t speak again, and John stared at him, waiting for him to move.

When he didn’t, John glanced around the room before looking back down to Sherlock. “Well?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. “You asked me to come,” John said. “I’m assuming it’s important.”

After a moment, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah, of course,” he said. “Can I borrow your phone?”

John blinked. “My phone?”

“Don’t want to use mine,” Sherlock elaborated. “Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It’s on the website.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s got a phone,” John said.

“Yeah, she’s downstairs,” Sherlock shrugged. “I tried shouting but she didn’t hear.”

“I was the other side of London!” John cursed, his temper rising.

Sherlock, ever immune, didn’t bat an eyelash. “There was no hurry,” he said.

John glared at him, watching as Sherlock continued to stare intently at the ceiling before closing his eyes once more. When it became evident that Sherlock wasn’t going to do or say anything, John dug around in his pocket for his phone.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, just held out his hand to receive it. John continued his glare, hoping that it was strong enough for Sherlock to feel it, and stepped forward and slapped the phone into his outstretched hand. Sherlock’s fingers closed around it, and he slowly brought it up to underneath his chin, clasping it between his palms in the same prayer-like position as before.

John began to pace back and forth. “So what’s this about?” he asked. “The case?”

“Her case…” Sherlock echoed.

“ _ Her  _ case?”

“Her suitcase, yes, obviously,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes. “The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.”

John nodded. “Okay, he took her case,” he said. “So?”

“It’s no use,” Sherlock muttered, “there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it.” Still not looking at John, Sherlock held out the phone for him to take. “On my desk there’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

John stared at him in disbelief, a half-smile twisted on his lips. “You brought me here…” he said, his voice tight, “to send a text.”

“Text, yes,” Sherlock said, oblivious to his anger. “The number on my desk.”

His hand was still outstretched, holding the phone out to him, and John glowered before snatching it from him, wondering if he would be able to get away with murder if there was no Sherlock Holmes to solve it. Phone in hand, John walked over to the window rather than the desk like Sherlock had asked, and looked out of it and onto the road below, scanning the street for CCTV.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Just met a friend of yours,” John said, holding back the curtains.

“A  _ friend _ ?”

Sherlock sounded confused, so John clarified. “An enemy.”

“Oh,” he said, pleased with this answer. “Which one?”

“Your  _ arch _ -enemy, according to him,” John said, closing the curtains and turning back to Sherlock. “Do people  _ have  _ arch-enemies?”

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Sherlock sighed. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

“Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet, and not my problem right now.” Sherlock pointed to the desk. “On my desk, the number.”

John shot Sherlock another dark look, but he had already looked away again. John picked up the piece of paper on the desk; it was a telephone number written on a baggage label. On the other side was a name.

“Jennifer Wilson,” he read. “That was…hang on. Wasn’t that the dead woman?”

“That’s not important,” Sherlock said. “Just enter the number.”

John typed the number into his phone, double checking every digit, but Sherlock was ever impatient. “Are you doing it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you  _ done _ it?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” John snapped. “Hang on!”

“These words  _ exactly _ ,” Sherlock said. “‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.’”

John started to type the message doubtfully as Sherlock continued with his instructions.

“‘Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.’”

John looked across to Sherlock and frowned. “You blacked out?” he asked, momentarily concerned.

“What? No. No!” Sherlock sat upright and flung his legs over the couch and onto the floor. He stood up quickly, and took the most direct route to the kitchen which, to John’s dismay, involved stepping on and over the coffee table in front of the couch rather than  _ around  _ it.

“Type and send it,” Sherlock said. “Quickly.”

John continued typing the message, but was distracted by Sherlock’s very  _ loud _ movements and, when he looked around to him, he saw him pick up a small pink suitcase from one of the dining chairs. Sherlock pulled the desk chair that was standing next to John into the middle of the living room so that it was stationed between the two arm chairs and in front of in front of the fireplace behind them, and placed the suitcase on top of it, zipping it open.

“Have you sent it?” Sherlock asked.

“What’s the address?”

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street,” he replied, growing more frazzled by the moment. “Hurry up!”

John finished and sent the text as Sherlock flipped open the lid of the suitcase. John peered inside at its contents: some clothes and underwear (all in frightfully varying shades of pink), a washbag, and a paperback novel. Nothing too far out of the ordinary, and yet…

“That’s…that’s the pink lady’s case,” John realised. “That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case.”

Sherlock was still, studying it intently. “Yes,” he affirmed. “Obviously.”

John continued to stare, his mind trying to supply a reason as to why — as to  _ how  _ — Sherlock could have a dead woman’s case. Just hours ago, he had said that it was missing.

Sherlock looked up at him and rolled his eyes. “Oh, perhaps I should mention:  _ I  _ didn’t kill her,” he said.

“I never said you did,” John countered.

“Why not?” Sherlock quipped. “Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked. “Now and then, yes.”

He gripped the arms of the armchair closest to him and hoisted himself up so that he was perching on the edge of it. Once he was suitably braced, Sherlock raised his hands and clasped them underneath his chin.

“Okay,” John said, and limped across the room to sit down in the other armchair. He dropped down heavily and leaned his cane against it. “How did you get this?” he asked.

“By looking,” Sherlock replied simply.

“Where?”

Sherlock put on his deduction face. “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens,” he explained. “He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention — particularly a man, which is statistically more likely — so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes away from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“You got  _ all  _ that because you realised the case would be pink?” John asked, dumbfounded.

“Well, it  _ had  _ to be pink,” Sherlock said. “Obviously.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” John muttered, speaking more to himself than Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and retorted, “Because you’re an idiot.”

John looked at him, mildly offended, though not as offended as he would be if it were coming from someone else. Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“No, no, no, don’t look like that,” he said. “Practically everyone is.” He folded his hands again and pointed toward the case, directing John’s attention.

“Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?”

“From the case?” John asked. “How could I?” The ‘ _ I’m an idiot _ ’ was implied.

“Her phone,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at him. “Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one — that’s her number there; you just texted it.”

“Maybe she left it at home.”

Sherlock lowered himself so he was sitting properly on the chair. “She has a string of lovers and she’s careful about it,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “She  _ never  _ leaves her phone at home.”

He placed the label with Jennifer Wilson’s phone number back into the luggage label on the pink suitcase and looked at John, smiling expectantly.

John looked down to his mobile phone; he’d placed it beside him on the arm of the chair. “Er…why did I just send that text?”

Sherlock’s eyes shone excitedly. “Well,” he smiled, “the question is: where is her phone  _ now _ ?”

“She could have lost it,” John guessed.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Or…?”

Realisation dawned on him, and Sherlock looked pleased. “The murderer…” he enunciated slowly. “You think the murderer has the phone?”

“Maybe she left it when she left her case,” Sherlock suggested. “Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

“Sorry,” John interrupted, “but what are we doing? Did I just text a  _ murderer _ ? What good will that do?”

As if on cue, John’s phone began to ring loudly, cutting through the tension in the room.

> (withheld)   
>  calling

No Caller I.D. John looked across to Sherlock and let the phone ring.

“A few hours after his last victim and now he receives a text that can only be from her,” he said, staring at the phone before looking up at John. “If somebody had just  _ found _ the phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…”

He drifted off as the phone stopped ringing, and looked at John in the eyes.

“The murderer,” he said, “would  _ panic _ .”

Sherlock grinned and flipped the lid of the suitcase closed, standing up and moving swiftly across the room to pick up his jacket. John looked from him, to his phone, and then back again.

John gripped the phone tightly. “Have you talked to the police?”

“Four people are dead,” Sherlock said, buttoning up his jacket. “There isn’t time to talk to the police.”

“Then why are you talking to  _ me _ ?” John asked, this being the first true question of the evening.

Sherlock smiled and reached behind the door for his long coat, and then looked pointedly to an empty space on the mantelpiece.

“Mrs. Hudson took my skull,” he said.

“So I’m basically filling in for your skull?”

“Relax,” Sherlock grinned, putting on the coat. “You’re doing fine.”

John didn’t move from his chair as Sherlock continued to flurry about the room, collecting this magnifying glass from here and that leather pouch from there and, just as he was about to make a dash for the door, he stopped to look at him in befuddlement.

“Well?”

“Well what?” John asked.

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly,” Sherlock teased.

Startled by this, John sat up straight and looked at him curiously. “What, you want me to come with you?”

“I like company when I go out,” Sherlock told him, “and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, you see.”

John huffed in quiet laughter. He could learn to get used to this.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, Sargent Donovan,” John said.

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and turned away in exasperation. “What about her?”

“She said…she said you get off on this,” John stated. “You enjoy it.”

Sherlock looked back at him, bit his lip, and sent John a sly, private smile. “And I said ‘dangerous,’ and here you are.”

He turned and walked out of the flat in long, confident strides, and John knew that this was checkmate. He pushed himself to his feet and shook his head, cursing Sherlock as he followed him out onto Baker Street.

Sherlock was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding the door open for him, and John hated that he could be so predictable.

“Thanks,” he said, as Sherlock closed the door and locked it behind them.

Sherlock nodded, still smiling to himself, and he and John stepped into rhythm as they crossed the road and turned the corner. The sun had long since set, but the moon shone bright, mixing with the light from the street lamps to illuminate the planes of Sherlock’s angular face. He really did look rather delicate like this, and might have even been pretty had it not been for the strong, determined expression that marred his features. Sherlock had turned up the collar of his coat so that his figure was a sea of darkness from his shoes to his hair, silhouetted against the pale skin of his face and throat. He said nothing, but stared ahead, leading the way.

“So, uh,” John began, clearing his throat, “where exactly are we going?”

“Northumberland Street is a five-minute walk from here,” Sherlock said.

“You think he’s stupid enough to go there?” John asked, struggling to keep up the pace.

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he smiled, “I think he’s  _ brilliant  _ enough. I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?”

“Appreciation! Applause!” Sherlock declared. “At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John, it needs an audience.”

John looked up at Sherlock. “Yeah,” he agreed. At least the man practiced what he preached.

Sherlock, oblivious to this implication, spun around on the pavement with his arms outstretched. “This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city,” he said. “Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.”

He placed his hands on either side of his head, thinking somewhat furiously.

“Think!” he said. “Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“Dunno,” John said, stumped. “Who?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest,” he said. “Hungry?”

He lowered his arms gestured to a small restaurant at the end of the street. John laughed and followed him inside. Sherlock held the door, smiling. He exchanged brief words with the waiter near the door, and it appeared that they knew each other, as they exchanged a friendly handshake before the waiter lead them over to a small table by the front window.

“Thank you, Billy,” Sherlock said, taking off his coat.

As they sat down, John noticed a small ‘Reserved’ sign in the centre of the table. Reserved…how had Sherlock known to make reservations? They had only left the flat five minutes ago and, judging by the full tables around them, it was a very popular place; Sherlock would have had to make the reservation  _ hours _ ago. They had only left the crime scene a few hours ago.

Billy — the waiter — removed the ‘Reserved’ sign from the table and John nodded at him in thanks, and then looked to Sherlock, who was gazing out of the window, searching.

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street,” he said, nodding to a building across the road. “Keep your eyes on it.”

“He isn’t just going to ring the doorbell, though, is he?” John said, frowning. “He’d need to be mad.”

“He  _ has  _ killed four people,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Fair point.”

Before they could say anything else, a large man with a ponytail came over to their table, smiling broadly at Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” the man greeted, shaking his hand firmly and placing two menus on the table. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you  _ and  _ your date.”

Sherlock turned to John. “Do you want to eat?”

“I’m not his date,” John told the man, but took the menu anyway. It was better for him to say it now rather than Sherlock; he’d already been let down once tonight.

“This man got me off a murder charge,” he said, grasping Sherlock by the shoulders.

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock introduced, and he and John shook hands. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder than Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking.”

Angelo turned to John. “He cleared my name!”

“I cleared it a  _ bit _ ,” Sherlock corrected, and then looked back over to the building across the street. “Anything happening opposite.”

“Nothing,” Angelo assured him before turning again to John. “If it weren’t for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

Sherlock glanced at him awkwardly. “You  _ did  _ go to prison,” he said.

“I’ll get a candle for the table,” Angelo smiled at them, ignoring Sherlock’s statement. “It’s more romantic.”

“I’m not his date!” John said to him as he walked away. They were in the middle of a murder investigation, for God’s sake. It wasn’t the  _ time  _ for a date.

Sherlock put his menu down on the table. “You may as well eat,” he said. “We might have a long wait.”

Angelo returned with a small, rose-coloured glass bowl, inside which was a tea-light. He put onto the centre of the table and gave John a thumbs-up before walking away again.

“Thanks,” John said, a little cautiously.

Sherlock was right: it was a long wait. John ordered food and Sherlock didn’t, and they sat in comfortable silence as they watched the comings and goings of the outside world, everything perfectly ordinary. They occasionally checked with each other that they hadn’t seen anything unusual or anyone particularly homicidal, and Sherlock even asked John about his meal when it arrived.

It did take a while, but eventually the night grew tedious. John sat and ate his dinner, while across from him Sherlock gazed out the window and drummed his fingers apprehensively on the table.

“People don’t  _ have  _ arch-enemies,” John said eventually between bites of his food.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock asked, finally looking around to him.

“In real life,” John continued. “There  _ are  _ no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

Sherlock, completely disinterested, looked back out of the window. “Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.”

“So who did I meet?”

Sherlock ignored him. “What do real people have, then,” he said, “in their ‘real’ lives?”

“Friends,” John told him. “People they know; people they like; people they don’t like…Girlfriends…” He dropped his gaze from Sherlock’s face down to his plate. “Boyfriends.”

“Yes,” Sherlock affirmed, not picking up on John’s change in tone. “Well, as I was saying — dull.”

John laughed, trying to picture  _ Sherlock _ in a relationship. “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?” he asked.

“Girlfriend?” Sherlock echoed, still looking out of the window. He sounded amused. “No, not really my area.”

John hummed in acknowledgment. Then he repeated Sherlock’s words in his head and realised the potential significance of the statement.

“Oh, right,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Do you, uh, have a…boyfriend?”

Sherlock looked around at him sharply, his steely eyes staring into John’s.

“Which is fine, by the way,” John assured him.

“I  _ know  _ it’s fine,” Sherlock said, his gaze unblinking.

John smiled and hoped that Sherlock knew he meant no ill by the statement. “So…you’ve got a boyfriend then?”

“No.”

“Right. Okay,” John said, his smile wavering under Sherlock’s intense stare. His mouth went dry and he licked his lips, imagining things that he should  _ not  _ be imagining. “You’re unattached. Like me.” He looked down at the table, unsure of how continue, and he couldn’t for the life of him come up with something to say. “Fine.” He cleared his throat. “Good.”

He went back to eating his food, and hoped that he hadn’t made it too awkward. They lapsed into silence again for a long moment, before Sherlock began to speak, and then began to babble.

“John, um…” Sherlock began, looking startled. “I think you should know that I, uh, I consider myself to be married to my work, and while I’m  _ flattered _ by your interest, I, uh, I’m really not looking for any…”

“No,” John interrupted, feeling his face heat up. “No, I’m not asking…” Well, he  _ was _ . “No, I wasn’t…”

He fixed his gaze to Sherlock’s, and he tried to be sincere. “I’m just saying, it’s  _ all  _ fine.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment and then nodded, straightening his back and looking back out the window, glancing back at him out of the corner of his eye. “Good,” he said. “Thank you.”

John looked away in embarrassment, internally cursing himself for being such an idiot. He knew that he was somewhat starved in the companionship department (romantic and otherwise unstated) but that display was, quite frankly, shocking. He had babbled like an absolute moron and had been turned down flat after barely anything more than a few words. John stabbed at his peas angrily.

“Look across the street,” Sherlock said, his voice low. “Taxi.”

Distracted by the prospect of the murderer, John twisted around in his seat to look out the window to where Sherlock had nodded. It was, indeed, a taxi, and it was stopped by the side of the road facing away from the restaurant.

“Stopped,” Sherlock noted. “Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.”

They watched, and then the passenger in the taxi turned around to face the restaurant, peering cautiously into the street as though he were looking for something. Or someone, John remembered.

“Why a taxi?” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “Oh, that’s clever.  _ Is  _ it clever?  _ Why _ is it clever?”

“That’s him?” John asked, craning his neck to get a better look.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock ordered.

John looked over to him. “What?  _ You’re  _ staring.”

“We can’t  _ both  _ stare,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet, his eyes not once leaving the taxi. He grabbed his coat and scarf and headed straight for the door, beckoning John to follow him. John knew from the sprightliness of his step that Sherlock was excited and that, in turn, made John excited, the gravity of their adventure dawning on him for the first time that night. He picked up his jacket and got to his feet, hurriedly following Sherlock out the door.

Once they were outside, Sherlock shrugged on his coat and watched the taxi. John watched too; the passenger continued to look around, scanning the street, and then glanced behind him out the rear window of the cab, right at them. The taxi began to drive away. John took down the cab number as a mental note.

John couldn’t react fast enough as Sherlock dashed out into the road, not bothering to check the traffic, and was almost run over by a car on his left. John’s heart raced as Sherlock leapt over the bonnet of the car (the driver of which had luckily slammed on his breaks) and ignored the blaring of the car horn. Without bothering to look back, Sherlock raced ahead, and John could only follow him into the darkened alleys of London.

John vaulted over the front of the car and shouted brief apologies to the driver, chasing after Sherlock. They reached the other side of the road and Sherlock came to an abrupt halt.

“I’ve got the cab number,” he told Sherlock; it became apparent that there was no way that they were going to be able to run after a car.

“Good for you,” Sherlock replied, bringing his hands to either side of his head and speaking in rapid fire. “Right turn, one way, roadworks…”

It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock was reciting a map of London, the route that the cab would take.  _ Brilliant _ .

“Traffic lights,” he continued, “bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.”

Sherlock’s head whipped up, scouring the area around them before dashing off again, this time colliding with a man rather than an automobile.

“Oi!” the man yelled as Sherlock shoved him out of the way and ran into the building he’d just unlocked.

John ran after him and raised an apologetic hand. “Sorry!”

The rest was a blur. They raced up the stairs and then onto a metal fire escape staircase and then onto the roof of the building, which was at least six floors up. John struggled to keep up with Sherlock who, having been blessed with gloriously long and nimble limbs, was leaping up the stairs two or three at a time.

“Come  _ on _ , John!”

They crossed the roof swiftly, the cold air nipping at John’s face and neck. Sherlock ran to the edge and looked over, clearly spotting more stairs. They ran down these stairs too, which lead down the side of the building to a door one floor lower. For a moment, John thought that Sherlock was going to kick down the door, but instead he jumped onto the metal railing and leaped across to the next building. John didn’t think twice before following him.

Sherlock, now leading by a decent distance, raced ahead of John, not slowing down at all as he ran across the roof, leaping again from this building to another. John moved to follow, but skidded to a rapid halt when he saw just how wide the gap was. How on  _ Earth  _ did Sherlock clear that without faltering?

“Come  _ on _ , John!” Sherlock called out. “We’re losing him!”

John backed up a few paces for a run up, and leaped over the gap. Time was of the essence after all.

It didn’t take more than a few seconds to catch up to Sherlock, who grabbed John by the sleeve and tugged him along. Together, they dropped down onto a walkway that stretched along the side of the building and kept on running. They ran along the walkway and then down countless flights of metal stairs that scaled the building, then to a small ledge from which they dropped down into a dark, secluded alleyway.

God, they must be getting close by now.

But Sherlock was relentless, and kept on running. And John followed him, because that was apparently what John did. They ran down the alleyway faster than John thought he had ever run before, and he saw the taxi pass in front of them where the alleyway met the street.

“Ah!” Sherlock yelled after it. “No!”

Still, they ran, Sherlock racing to the end of the alley way and turning right.

“This way!” Sherlock shouted, but John had instinctively turned left in pursuit of the taxi. “No,  _ this  _ way!”

John panted his apologies and turned back to the opposite direction, following Sherlock close at his heels. They ran down roads and side streets and alleyways that all ended up blurring together in John’s mind, and he had absolutely no clue where he was. Funny thing was, he didn’t care in the slightest.

Just then, Sherlock launched himself into the street and into the path of the oncoming cab, which screeched to a halt as he crashed hard and fast into the bonnet. John froze, but Sherlock didn’t appear to be too put out by being hit by a bloody  _ car _ , and scrabbled around in his coat pocket. He swiftly pulled out what John could only assume was an I.D. badge and flashed it at the driver.

“Police!” he shouted, running over to the right hand side of the cab. “Open her up!”

Unfortunately, John couldn’t recover quite as quickly as Sherlock from their late-night marathon (or was it the shock of watching Sherlock being hit by a car in the span of half an hour?) and could only walk over slowly as he regained his breath.

Sherlock was panting heavily as he flung open the door to the cab, staring at the passenger. He straightened up, exasperated, just as John joined him.

“No,” he said to nobody, and John saw the passenger looking up at them anxiously. John knew considerably less about serial killers than Sherlock, but this man really didn’t seem the type.

“No…” Sherlock repeated. “Teeth, tan…what — Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.”

He grimaced and John gaped at him. “How could you  _ possibly  _ know that?”

“The luggage,” Sherlock said, irritated, and pointed down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab. Its label showed that the man had apparently flown from LAX to LHR. He was right; this man wasn’t their murderer.

“It’s probably your first trip to London, right,” Sherlock said, this time to the passenger, “going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?”

“Sorry,” the man said, heavily accented. “Are you guys the police?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded, flashing the I.D. badge briefly at the man. Too briefly, John noted, for the man to get a good look at it. “Everything all right?”

The passenger smiled at them, flashing his very white (and very American) teeth. “Yeah.”

Sherlock blinked and appeared to be at a loss as to what to say. He breathed in deeply through his nose, put on a fake smile, and nodded at him. “Welcome to London,” he said, immediately walking away.

John stared blankly for a moment, before stepping into Sherlock’s charade. He leaned in closer to the cab and smiled tightly at the passenger, still slightly winded from the chase. “Er, any problems, just let us know.”

The man nodded awkwardly and John smiled, knowing he hadn’t bought it. He slammed the cab door shut and walked over to where Sherlock was standing just a few paces behind the taxi.

“Basically just a cab that happened to slow down,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “Basically.”

“Not the murderer.”

“ _ Not  _ the murderer,” Sherlock sighed, exasperated and disappointed. “No.”

“Wrong country,” John noted. “Good alibi.”

“As they go,” Sherlock agreed, swapping the I.D card between one hand and the other.

John tilted his head, trying to get a closer look at it. “Hey,” he said. “Where — where did you get this? Here.” He reached for the card and Sherlock handed it to him. “Right…Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock said. “I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.”

John nodded and looked down at the card, Lestrade’s face staring blankly back at him. He pocketed it, and shook his head, and he realised the sheer hilarity of their situation.

John began to giggle.

“What?” Sherlock asked, looking alarmed.

“Nothing,” John smiled. “Just: ‘Welcome to London.’”

It took a moment, but Sherlock smiled too and chuckled quietly, deep and clear. Then, he looked over John’s shoulder back at where the cab had been — where the cab still was, and John looked back too to see the passenger talking to a  _ real  _ police officer.

“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked, bouncing on his heels.”

John nodded. “Ready when you are.”

And they turned and ran down the road, away from the cab and back to Baker Street.


End file.
